“The guy ran, Chief,” Gina says.
“We got our man. Isn’t that what counts?” Tony backs her.
“Maybe driving on the sidewalk was a little excessive,” she admits.
“A little excessive? First day out and you scratch the shit out of it!” Chief Burns stands from his desk, pacing. “I asked myself, I said, ‘Chief, what do you do with two detectives who do good work, but work against each other half the time?’”
“Aw, no, Chief,” Gina retorts.
“You got it, DeLuca. Hit the hammer on the head. Meet your new partner,” Chief announces, his fists pridefully resting on his hips.
Gina and Tony share a puzzled glance, both mouthing, Hit the hammer on the head?
“I’m starting to warm up to Marks. Come on, Chief. Gronkowski’s been teamed up with Torres for a while now, too. We can’t work together.” She gestures largely from herself to Tony and back again for effect. “Hell, you see what happens when we end up on scene together, in two separate patrol cars. You can’t seriously be thinking about teaming us up.”
“No, DeLuca, I’m not thinking about anything. It’s done. And here’s your first assignment.” He slaps a folder down on the desk in front of them.
“Chief…”
“Gina. It’s done.”
Tony smiles at her, a beguiling grin. “Come on, DeLuca. Might be fun. At least we won’t be fighting over who’s first in.” She smirks back at him, crossing her arms defiantly over her chest.
“We have a little problem, boys and girls.” Chief Burns opens up the file, shifting through rap sheets that match morgue pictures. “Seems we’ve got a vigilante of sorts, who’s primary targets are rapists and child molesters.”
“What’s the problem?” Gronkowski asks, in a calloused tone.
Chief exchanges an understanding, yet authoritative glance with Tony. “Thomas Boyd, Victor Peebles, Roberto Moreno, Darius Williams…and the list goes on. All of ’em convicted rapists or child molesters. Rap sheets longer than my arm. They just found another one this morning. A lake outside of town. Drowned.”
“People die all the time from accidental drowning,” Gina says.
“Now listen, you two. That’s enough with the comments. We took an oath to serve and protect…everyone.” Chief runs his thumbs around the inside of the waist of his pants, giving them a gentle tug, his neck and jaw twitching momentarily as if the admission pained him.
Tony and Gina watch him uncomfortably.
“What we do know, whoever this vigilante is, he’s no amateur. Patterns have been established. Every murder takes place on the home ground, if you will, of the perpetrator. Maybe a setup. For instance, this guy here.” Chief Burns points to a photo. “Elroy Dawson. Released three-months ago after serving time for child molestation. Hung around the playground of Reagan Elementary. Friggin’ Easter Bunny baited kids with candy. Found dead, lying under the Monkey Bars at Reagan Elementary last week, bound and gagged with a mouth full of candy laced with enough Mercury to kill a moose.”
Tony chuckles. “Gotta give him some props for creativity.” He clears his throat, removing the smile from his face after receiving a disgruntled look from Chief Burns. “Just saying.”
“Him?” Gina asks. “Do we know it’s a he?”
“The only thing we’ve got from forensics is a few traces of blood, which are defective in their DNA. Some kind of fake, made-up blood type. It’s not natural,” Chief Burns replies.
“Covering his tracks?” Tony implies. “What is he some kind of scientist, medical professional? Who else knows enough about blood to fool forensics?”
“Any leads? Family members? Witnesses? Who and where do we start?” Gina’s wheels start turning, aloud.
Chief Burns turns to the back of the file, and points to a business card. “Dr. Ryan, the department Psychologist. She’s had every one of these men in her office at some point. Has all their records. Knows their patterns. It’s a part of the State’s mandatory rehabilitation protocol. They all have to participate once they’re on probation. She’s the only link in the string right now.”
Gina and Tony share another puzzled glance at his second ill-spoken idiom. Chief takes a bite from his hoagie, successfully keeping its contents within the bun this time. However, that doesn’t stop a smear of mayonnaise from residing at the corner of his mouth. Tony wipes at the corner of his own mouth, thinking maybe Chief will pick up on his subtle gesture. He does not. Gina picks up a napkin and timidly reaches across the desk.
“Missed a spot, Chief.” She smiles coyly.
Chief swipes at his mouth with the cuff of his shirt, foregoing the napkin. “Alright then. Get to it.”
Gina picks up the file and turns swiftly to exit the room.
“I need a report on my desk by week’s end,” Chief says, tapping his desk with his knuckles.
“I’ll have my secretary get right on that. Huh, DeLuca?” Tony pipes up, grinning.
She slaps the file against his chest as she walks by him, maintaining its possession. “I’ll have him in a dress and heels by the end of the week, Chief. So he looks real pretty when he delivers that report.” The sound of her shoes echo down the hall.
Chief laughs heartily. “Gronkowski, you’ve got your work cut out for you, in more ways than one.”
“Don’t I know,” he says, shaking his head as he walks from the room. Stopping at the outer edge of Chief’s office, he peeks his head back inside the doorway. “Uh, Chief. For future reference…it’s ‘hit the nail on the head,’ and ‘link in the chain.’”
“I know. That’s what I said.” Chief wads up a piece of paper and wings it at him. Tony catches the paper ball with swift reflexes. “Get on it, Gronkowski.”
Gina and Tony take separate paths. Tony casually meanders to his station, while Gina makes a beeline for Dr. Ryan’s office. Her door is open. Dr. Patricia Ryan sits at her desk, head down, writing. Gina stands outside and knocks lightly on the door casing.
Dr. Ryan does not look up as she responds, “It’s open.”
Gina enters the room slowly. Dr. Ryan finally looks up acknowledging her guest. “Detective DeLuca. I’ve been expecting you. Please, have a seat.”
Gina sits down in the chair in front of Dr. Ryan’s desk. “Busy day, huh?” She attempts to make small talk.
“Ms. DeLuca, I know you didn’t come here to talk about my busy day.” Dr. Ryan lays her pen down and removes her glasses, looking sharply at Gina. “I know what you’re here for, and I must regrettably inform you, you’re not going to get much information. Even therapists who work for Vanguard PD are held accountable to patient confidentiality. You’re wasting your time, Detective. And mine.”
“The department doesn’t consider investigating a string of murders a waste of time.”
“I see,” Dr. Ryan says, sitting back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other, her hands primly pressed together in her lap. “There are innocent people murdered in this city every day. Instead of finding justice for them, the department has chosen to focus its time and manpower on tracking down the murders of convicted rapists and child molesters. My thanks to the city for having their priorities in order.”
Gina looks at her quizzically, slightly thrown off. “I understand your distaste for the situation. However, I have a job to do. Unfortunately, it starts with you.” Gina opens the file in front of Dr. Ryan, displaying photographs of the victims. “Do you recognize any of these men?”
Dr. Ryan remains distant, her back against her chair, her eyes fixed on Gina, purposely refusing to look down at the photos. “I’ve already told you my relationships with clients are strictly classified.”
Gina sighs and responds sympathetically, “Dr. Ryan. You know there are ways the department has of getting around confidentiality. Please don’t make this any more difficult than it already is.”
Dr. Ryan leans up on her desk toward Gina, her body language intense. “Difficult? Let me tell you about difficult, Detective DeLuca,” reite
rating her name sharply. “Pretend for a moment that you are me, and I am a client. I stroll in here and tell you how I met a fifteen year-old girl online. Convinced her to invite me over when her parents were out of the house. And how I held her down on her bed and raped her because, of course, she wanted me to. And that I may be proud or indifferent of that fact.” She takes a moment, transitioning from feeling to detachment. Her body language softens. She leans back into her chair, fidgeting with a pen in her hand. “Then you have to explain my actions, make me feel like I’m actually human. When what you really want to do is hang me up by my balls in the middle of town square so the entire world can see what a heartless, guiltless animal looks like.” The pen snaps in her palm.
Gina sits speechless.
“My files are closed.” Dr. Ryan leans forward closing Gina’s file and hands it to her. “Maybe yours should be too.”
Gina gets up to leave, responding as she walks to the door, “I’ll be back.”
Dr. Ryan busies herself with paperwork. “I’m sure you will.”
EARLY EVENING. VANGUARD Police Department. Gina walks the long corridor to her desk in a frustrated state. She has been following leads for hours, coming up empty-handed. As she rounds the corner, she spots Tony kicked back in her chair, his feet propped up on her desk, sorting through a pile of paperwork.
Oh great, she thinks.
Upon seeing her, he flashes a lavish smile. “How’d it go partner?”
Gina smacks his feet down off of her desk. “Don’t get too comfortable. You’ll be back at your own desk before you know it.” She sits down across from him, burying her head in her hands.
“Not so well I take it?” He throws a stack of files her way, grinning. “Here. Have a look. See what you come up with.”
She looks at him, annoyed by his playfully handsome demeanor. She opens up the first file, leafing through it eagerly, looking to Tony in disbelief. She shuffles through the other files. Each one a detailed account of every murdered rapist’s history, including psychological evaluations and victim statements. “How’d you get these? Where did you get these?”
“My charm, DeLuca, my charm.” He leans toward her, his hands nimbly assembling a piece of paper into a paper football.
“Are they legal?”
“The documents are legal.” He smiles.
“Gronkowski, are these files admissible? Can we use them to build a case?” Gina whispers, closing the manila folder, she looks around suspiciously.
“Don’t sweat the small stuff, DeLuca. The bottom line—we need information to establish a pattern. We figure out the puzzle, we catch our vigilante in the act.” He flicks the paper football in her direction. It lands on top of her stack of files. “You got the pieces right there. At the end of it all, it won’t matter how we acquired them, just as long as we got ’em.”
She gets up from her chair, pushes the paper football off the documents, loading them into her briefcase.
“Come on DeLuca, don’t be such a stickler. Do you know how many strings I pulled to get those? I thought you might show a little gratitude.”
“I’m not an ingrate. I’m simply smart enough to take these elsewhere before I tear off into them.” She flings her briefcase over her shoulder and talks in a low voice, “What are the chances you could get some info on Dr. Ryan?”
Tony’s ears perk up, the tenacity returning to his face. “Now you’re thinking.” He slaps his hand affirmatively on the desk.
“Shh.” Gina looks around surreptitiously.
“I can probably swing that. She give you a vibe?”
Gina doesn’t answer, continuing to gather her stuff.
“Where you going to look those over? You wanna grab some coffee?”
“Home. There’s a hot bath calling my name,” she replies.
Tony smiles mischievously. “You need someone to wash your back?”
“I think I can handle it.” She returns his smile. “I’ll call if I need any help.” She zones in on the paper football lying on the table with intense concentration, biting her lip for increased focus.
“You don’t have my number.” Tony continues to play.
She flicks the paper football in his direction, its destination perfectly resting half on, half off the side of the desk. Touchdown. Her eyes trail back up to Tony’s. “Exactly,” she says.
He watches her walk away, shaking his head, unable to rein in his admiration.
Chapter 3
LATE EVENING. DETECTIVE Gina DeLuca’s house. Her place smells of cucumber melon bubble bath and scented candles. On the coffee table in the living room, files are scattered about, accompanied by Sticky Notes outlined in bright red ink and diagrams attempting to make sense of the chaos within each manila sleeve.
Music blasts from the radio, Sheryl Crow’s C’mon C’mon album, track eight Lucky Kid. Gina dances down the hallway in a black bra and matching panties, her hair soaking wet, her aroma good enough to eat from her bubbly indulgence. Her body keeping time with the music, she makes her way to the kitchen pulling a whiskey bottle from the top of the refrigerator.
“‘Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh, you’re a lucky kid,’” she sings along with the radio as she drops a few ice cubes into a short glass, topping it off with the high-octane oak-colored liquid. Tipping her head back, her lips part, her mouth wet, her throat warms with the contact.
“Hmm,” she groans, a pleasurable smile forming. She moves methodically to her coffee pot in preparation for her five-thirty wake-up call.
Knock! Knock! Knock! The urgent sound coming from her front door sends her into alert mode. She quickly throws a robe on over her attire, scooping up her handgun while in transit. She stands warily to the side of the door casing, “Who is it?”
“Tony.”
Tony? She mouths the name perplexingly to herself. “How’d you get my address?” she asks absentmindedly before fully considering who she’s talking to.
“Uh, gee, it’s this little thing called my job. Detectives…they’re supposed to be good at finding things. Come on, Gina, I got something you are going to love.”
“Typical,” she says dryly, releasing the deadbolt. “That’s what all the boys say.” She peers through the chain, scanning Tony up and down through the tiny crack, a wry smile forming as she sees him standing there, fidgeting. It’s obvious he can hardly contain himself, a file tucked securely under his arm.
“Come on, Gina. Quit playing.” He looks from side to side, “This is it,” he says jockeying the folder from under his arm.
“Alright, alright.” She releases the chain, pulling the door open for him, as she uses it to hide her nighttime attire.
Tony busts in, slaps the file down on the island in the kitchen, the adrenaline in his system responsible for his choppy pacing. Gina closes the door behind him, holstering her pistol in its rightful place, her breadbox.
“Take a look,” he says, his knuckles knock on the file, as he props himself up against the counter.
Gina opens the file to find Dr. Patricia Ryan’s name and a much younger picture of her staring back, a graduation picture from West Point, Class of 1985. “Wow. She was beautiful.” Under the picture is a New York State rape report. The pieces coming together as Gina looks up at Tony, stunned.
“She was raped her senior year at West Point. Date rape. Frat party. She knew the guy.”
“Most of them do.”
“The police were out looking for him the next day, after she filed the report. Got a call from Campus PD. They found the guy dead in his dorm room. O.D.’d on Special K.”
“Karma’s a real bitch sometimes,” Gina defends, shrugging her shoulders.
“Karma Schmarma, Gina.” Tony paces, his eyes diverting from the file to Gina, distractedly. “The guy was an athlete. Star running back. Full scholarship. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Oh, because jocks always make the best sense. I see where you’re going with this Gronkowski, and I don’t like it. She’s a psychologist with the department.
You realize where you’re going here? When you start blaming your own? That’s dangerous territory, Tony, and you know it.”
“Dammit, Gina. Yes, I know that.” Frustrated, he slaps his hand down on the counter top. “But we can’t ignore the possibility just because she’s one of us.”
Gina makes her way around the island, preparing a drink for Tony, as he seems to need one.
“His teammates reported they were due to be tested two days after the party. Why would the guy do Special K when he knew he was up for testing?”
“I don’t know. Why would the guy go on a drinking binge when he knew he was up for testing?” She slides the drink in front of him. “We could go tit for tat on this all night.”
He takes a swig from the glass.
“What about his previous drug tests? Any of them come back positive?” she asks.
“Nope. Clean as a whistle. I’m telling ya, I just got this feeling, Gina.”
“Ahhh,” she exhales frustrated, winding her hands around the back of her neck, her head tips up toward the ceiling, as she spins in circles. Tony watches her, his mind momentarily pulled from the task at hand.
“I got this other feeling, too. That maybe you should put some clothes on.”
She stops spinning and looks to him annoyed. “You come to my house uninvited, shake up my relaxation time, and think you can tell me how to dress?”
“You’re distracting.” He takes another drink.
She follows suit, meeting her mouth with her glass, deliberately running her tongue over her top lip slowly removing any remnants of the toxic substance. “Get over it, Gronkowski.”
He shakes his head, smiling.
Setting her glass down, she paces from one end of the kitchen island to the next, pondering Tony’s suspicions. “So, you’re implying the overdose was not an overdose at all. Do you really think she would have had the knowledge or the wherewithal as a college student to get her hands on Ketamine and know how to administer it at a lethal level? The kid was a football player. How would she have overpowered him to get the stuff in his system? That’s a stretch Tony. We’re talking Gumby here.” She holds her arms extended from her sides for affect.
Vigilare Page 3
